


Gender and it's (lack of) Importance

by aloneintherain



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Amy has a brief lady boner for the female!Doctor, Gender Issues, Genderswap, I'm a huge River/Doctor shipper, Multi, a touch of angst, little bit of self-hatred, sexism across the universe, so be careful of that, story mainly focuses on the Eleventh Doctor, the Doctor is sexy in all genders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An introspection on the Doctor as a woman and the things that would change.</p>
<p>(Or: in which some people give way too many fucks and River can’t find any to give.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gender and it's (lack of) Importance

The Doctor’s smaller than most – bar several fortunate regenerations -  and when she meets new people, they often have to look down to greet her. And boy, does she meet a lot of people.

 Hundreds of them, thousands, _millions._ So many races and species of people from all over the universe (univers _es_ ), all over space and time. She watches empires rise up and civilizations crumble. She was there in the beginning and she was there in the end.

 She sees so much, meets so many and learns. Learning, constantly, more and more with every new planet she explores, every new star she passes, every new face she sees.

 She tries to follow the Time Lord code, she really does. She tries to watch and not intervene but she almost always gets sucked in. Somehow, she always ends up trying to save everyone.

 Most, she saves (it hurts to think about those she doesn’t).

 She tries to help people, tries to save them but she finds that some of the time - and now, with this face, more than ever - they don’t want to be saved. Not by her at least.

 “I’m trying to safe your life,” she tries to reason with one man – a humanoid with bright purple skin – but he doesn’t seem to want to let her, staring up at her with distrust. “Let me help you,” she begs. She holds out her one outstretched hand further, her other steadying her hold on the TARDIS. Below them, the unstable building groans. “Please, _please_. Let me help.”

 (He does in end, but it takes a whole troop of enemy soldiers – and she still has unresolved issues with _that_ particular race – retreating at the sight of her TARDIS, for him to take her hand.)

 It baffled her at first, when she was young and inexperienced. Why wouldn’t these people accept her help? Why did they look so embarrassed when she saved them?

 She’s never let other people’s (“just because they aren’t human,” she finds herself having to remind more than one companion, “doesn’t mean they aren’t still people!”) beliefs or ideals shape who she is. They look at her and see weakness so she shows them strength. They think she is inexperienced so she tells them tales of battles fought millions of galaxies away. They think her small and she makes sure that when she faces down opponents twice her size, they have front row seats. They reject her ideas of peace; she _drags_ them from the battlefield.

 But it doesn’t matter. No matter how many bigoted idiots she reforms, there’s always more. It can be rather insulting and, if she were to be perfectly honest, it can hurt.

 But those people aren’t the worse. Those people are small – not unimportant, never unimportant – and she is huge. Those people have never learnt to actually _see_ when they look, skipping straight over her eyes and skimming straight down to see thin arms and legs and small, fragile-looking features.

 And her eyes. Oh, her eyes. She may not be human and she may not age in the tradition sense, but the experience she gains – and Rory may have waited two thousand years for his Amy but he has no idea what it truly is to live hundreds and hundreds of years and _feel_ it – can’t be wiped off. She can’t forget, she’ll never forget (a flash of Jane Smith skims across her memory, a woman of small, country-town England and her small, country-town love and _oh,_ what she would give to go back and be Jane Smith again) and that knowledge pools into her eyes, behind pupils and whites and greens, further back, into the soul.

 But no, those people are not the worst. Annoying, granted but not the worst.

 There are people that look at her, really _look_ , and see what everyone else misses. She doesn’t meet these people often, though. They are far and few between but when she does meet these people, the ones she wants to both seek out and avoid, their reactions are always different.

 Some flinch away when she tries to touch them. Some back away, eyes wide and alert, tracking her every moment, waiting for her to lash out and attack. Some, mostly her enemies, run. Some warn others to run, desperate for her companion of the time to see what they see, to open their eyes and just _look at her,_ god, they think she’s a monster (sometimes she agrees with them).

 No one ever believes those people, though. Sometimes she wishes they would.

 And then there are those that think she’s wonderful. They think she can save them. Oh, how she loves saving them, these little humans with their big, big dreams and their fingers always outstretched, towards the stars. They possess the kind of perseverance that will one day be known throughout the universe (she should know, she was there) and help them to travel to even the furthest reaches of the galaxy. She’ll never get saving them. A part of her hopes she’ll never have to.

 Ah, she’s getting off track again! She always does that, she knows; her companions tell her often enough. With her space talk and her curiosity, they never quite know what she’s on about. And besides, these past few regenerations do have the tendency to ramble. Right, okay, so what was she saying?

 So there are those who doubt her, those that fear her, those that love her, those that- well, yes, in all her years of living she has met a lot of people, okay? You get the idea.

 And they call her things, always naming her wherever she goes - _“_ Doctor? Doctor _who?” -_ savior, healer. Damned.

 They call her many things. The Oncoming Storm. The Predator. The savior of Worlds.

 He calls her sweetie.

 “ _River,”_ she hisses, more frustrated than angry, throwing her hands up in the air. “You defaced the oldest rock in _all of creation!”_

_“_ And you don’t answer your phone,” he replies calmly, wiping the last of his lipstick from his mouth (the one he picked up from an inter-galactic trader - one she still doubts was legal - and continues to wear despite the odd looks it earns him).

 He’s a mixture of all three, her River Stone. And, well, the best people always are.

 He never underestimate her but he knows her weaknesses, her fears, yet he can see how dangerous she can be, how much damage she inflicts – both to those around her and to herself.

 And she doesn’t have to _save_ him.

 Well, okay, she’s lying. She does have to save him but just as often, she finds herself being the one saved. (And isn’t that a nice feeling? It’s…   _refreshing.)_ But while she saves everyone else, she doesn’t have half her mind on him, worrying, like she does with the others she collects along the way – don’t think about her, don’t think about her, _don’t think about Rose –_ but instead let’s her do what she must. With him, there are no fantastical expectations to live up to. He steps back and let her work her magic, always a few steps behind, ready to catch her. He lets her rant and rave and stress and shout out all her frustration, and at _him_ no less. He doesn’t complain and he doesn’t bring it up, accepting it with a quiet finality that makes her ache because oh, she really does love him.

 She was there when he ended and she was there when he began and yet he still manages to whisk her off of her feet. He’s so… _different._

He pops up whenever she least expects him and always leaves when she doesn’t him want to and sometimes she has to go months and months without hearing even a _whisper_ from him – and sometimes he is the one that has to endure the silence -  and it’s strange. She’s never had to _wait_ for someone. She’s never been the one running to catch up; she’s always the one that people run towards, hoping and hoping to catch up to her.

 She stumbles across _them._ That’s how things are. And yet River… River forced his way into her life, barged in and started making himself at home without so much as an introduction. People shouldn’t just- just _appear_ in her life (don’t think about Donna, damnit, don’t think about her) that’s just not the way things are done! And then, if that wasn’t enough, he had this insane amount of knowledge about her background and who she was and who she was going become and no one’s supposed to know more than she does, they aren’t, they _aren’t!_

 So, yes. He breaks all of the rules and when they first met she may or may not have freaked the hell out.

 (But she can be forgiven. For goodness sake, he knew her _name!)_

And somehow, somehow, she falls in love with his head of huge, impossible curls and never-ending smile and optimism and _knowing._ The last person she met that knew this much about what the universe could do a person was _Jack_ (and that’s a whole 'nother story, right there).

 And his guns! Always with the guns; his always over exaggerated and deadly and more likely to explode than anything else. She shouldn’t like them, those guns (but she kind of does.

 See? He breaks all of the rules. _All_ of them).

* * *

“This is my friend, River. Nice hair, clever, has his own gun, and, unlike me, he really doesn’t mind shooting people. I shouldn’t like that,” she turns and looks at him, quirking her lip. “Kind of do a bit,” she says.

 He nods, his arm and gun outstretched towards the Silence. “Thank you, sweetie.”

 She turns back towards the threat. “I know you’re team players and everything,” she continues, “but he’ll definitely kill at least the first three of you.”

 River backs up behind her and they stand like that, back to back. “Oh, the first seven, easily,” he says.

 “Seven? Really?”

 “Oh, eight for you, honey.”

 “Stop it.”

 His head dips back towards her, his curls dropping down and brushing against the top of her head, “Make me.”

 “Yeah, well,” her grin widens, “maybe I will.”

 Amy makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat. “Flirting?” she snaps, leaning forward. “They’re holding me hostage and you two are _flirting?”_

 She opens her mouth to say something but Amy holds her wrists up and shakes them, making the restraints clenched around them rattle.  “Yes, I know, Amy," she tells her, "we’re getting you out of here, don’t worry.”

* * *

Amelia Pond. Glorious Pond. Amazing, impossible Pond.  First face this face ever saw. First companion for this face, too. And, like most of her companions, well, gender stopped being an issue. (Seriously, what is with companions and they're crushes on her? Why couldn't she have more companions like Donna and Craig?) 

Amy sits on her bed beside her, head cocked to one side, her tone knowing. “I nearly died,” Amy says. “I was alone in the dark and I nearly died. And it made me think-”

 “Yes, well, naturally,” the Doctor interjects, “I think sometimes. Well, lots of times.”

 “About what I want,” Amy goes on. “About _who_ I want… you know what I mean?”

 She blinks. “Yeah,” she pauses and thinks, shaking her head. “No.”

 Amy tries again. “About _who_ I want.”

 “Oh right, _yeah…_ ” Amy looks at her and she sighs. “Nope, still not getting it.”

 So when Amy leans forwards and presses her lips against her own, the Doctor is understandably startled.

 (Just because she’s lived for over a thousand years doesn’t mean she spends all of that time snogging people! You have to give a Time lord some warning!)

 “But- I- _you,”_ the Doctor splutters when she finally breaks free, waving her hands widely in the air, “aren’t you humans supposed to be gender specific during this time period?”

 Amy shrugs.  “I’ve been hundreds of years into the future. Kind of puts the little things into perspective, don’t you think?”

 “You-“ the Doctor straightens her bowtie – they’re _cool –_ and points at her companion, “you are getting married in the morning! You shouldn’t be kissing strange women!”

 Amy leans forwards again and the Doctor takes several more steps back, dancing out of reach.

 “ Rory will never know,” Amy says.

 (Except, years later, Rory _does_ end up knowing. Amy is even the one that tells him.

 “That’s, er, that’s-” Rory stutters, “that’s actually really hot.”)

She finds people snog her a lot. All kinds of species. Men, women; people of unpredetermined genders. Her tenth regeneration was especially popular. (Rose certainly- _no,_ don’t go there.)

 Some places don’t seem to care in the slightest. Gender? No gender? They really didn’t see what the fuss is.

 And then some places, well, she tends to avoid those places.

 (“A woman,” they sneer, “you think a _woman_ can save us? Hah!”)

 She finds Earth to be especially bad in that aspect.

 The Doctor especially doesn’t understand what the big deal is. She’s never understood the boundaries and labels people put upon one another. Everyone is just as capable as everyone else and _why_ do some people think it necessary to think otherwise?

 But none of her companions care about it. Or if they do, they certainly don’t after they travel with her. (See: Amy’s snogging fest.) And, well, at the end of the day, the ones she loves are the only opinions that really matter.

 And, oh, does she love all of them.

 With all her hearts.

 (Heartbreak is a burden to us all. Pity the person with two.)


End file.
